


Wednesday (the best day of all)

by UnrelentingHost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actual talking for once, Fancy Legos, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Negotiating feelings, Panic Attack, Parentlock, Rosie being adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnrelentingHost/pseuds/UnrelentingHost
Summary: Sherlock picks up Rosie from daycare like he does every Wednesday, but today he's not Sherlock anymore. Apparently he's 'Daddy'. Fuck, what to tell John?





	Wednesday (the best day of all)

**Author's Note:**

> "Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all:  
> Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, Saturday no luck at all."  
> -Old English Rhyme

Today was Wednesday, and Wednesdays were good.

On Wednesdays, John finished paperwork at the office which made his working day at least two hours longer than usual. Therefore, Sherlock got to pick up Rosie from daycare.

This was their routine now, the daycare staff knew Sherlock would arrive at precisely 15:45, and Sherlock always took great care to have nothing going on every single Wednesday. If a level 10 case popped up on a Tuesday night, he would let it sit until after Rosie was asleep the following night. This had only happened once so far, and John had nearly admitted Sherlock to A&E for potential concussion or stroke at the time.

Sherlock tried pretending to himself that John's response hadn't hurt his feelings, but being able to acknowledge the fact that he had tried ultimately meant that he had failed.

The only thing that mattered in this moment was that Sherlock was stepping out of the cab that had transported him to Rosie's daycare and since it was already 15:43, Sherlock was about 2 minutes from picking up Rosie; because today was Wednesday, and Wednesdays were good.

Sherlock nodded at the reception woman on his way to Rosie's group room. He had only just arrived at the door with the little window in it when he heard Rosie's muffled shriek. The door flung open and Rosie came bolting out.

“Daddy!” She flung herself into his arms with enough force for him to make a soft 'uhmpf' sound.

“Hello, little Watson,” he said in greeting and swung her around in a circle. He was acutely aware of the usual staff looking at them with unusual interest, so he put Rosie down and led her to where her outside clothes hung.

Each child had their own little nook where they kept their boots, scarfs, and parkas. Rosie's had a plaque with her name on it above her nook, and a picture she drew herself sellotaped under it. It was a crudely drawn picture of Rosie, John, and Sherlock. Every time he got to see it, his heart sung.

As Sherlock pulled Rosie's parka off the hanger it occurred to him that she had just referred to him as 'Daddy'. He was suddenly concerned. Rosie couldn't possibly mistake Sherlock for John, unless...

Unless what, he hadn't time to figure out because Rosie chose that moment to say:

“Can we go feed the ducks, Daddy?”

Sherlock could feel the receptionist's gaze bore into his back so he let the issue go for now.

“Certainly.”

And off they went.

Rosie was skipping next to Sherlock, clutching his hand and swinging it back and forth. He liked taking her on public transport rather than a cab; she loved the ticket gates at the Tube. They stopped by a bakery and bought pastries for themselves and some bread for the ducks. Rosie got to pay with Sherlock's card, but he had to lift her up to the counter so she could tap it against the machine. She giggled when the cashier thanked her for her purchase, and then she demanded to carry the bread all the way to Regent's Park.

Once they had found a nice bench and given away all their bread to the ducks, Sherlock finally decided to ask Rosie about the 'Daddy' phenomenon. She was tucking away into a cinnamon bun with obvious delight; her cheeks were covered in sugar icing and chocolate. Sherlock handed her a tissue, which he carried with him every Wednesday in case of a situation like this.

“Thanks, Daddy.” She said primly and dabbed at her cheeks with her uncoordinated toddler hands.

“Rosie,” Sherlock started, and she swiftly looked up at him because she knew that whenever he used her name, he meant business. “Why are you calling me 'Daddy'?”

Rosie blinked up at him, seemingly befuddled. He was indeed aware that he was trying to have a serious discussion with an almost 4-year-old, but he met her gaze and nodded gravely, regardless.

“Because,” Rosie stated finally.

Sherlock groaned. It was her go-to answer to everything. 'Why are you drawing on the wall with a sharpie!' 'Because!' 'Why don't you hang up your jacket?' 'Because!' 'Why aren't you asleep yet?' 'Because!' Sherlock took a calming breath.

“You haven't called me that before today,” he countered.

“Today we learned about mommies and daddies, and how some people have two mommies instead of one mommy and one daddy, and I told them I had two daddies. Kevin's got two mommies but everyone else got mommies and daddies. Except for Gladys, she got only one mommy and no daddy.” Rosie took another bite of her cinnamon bun as if that had been explanation enough.

“I still don't understand how that relates to our current issue, Rose.” Sherlock said with his no-nonsense-this-is-serious voice. Rosie rolled her eyes at him and swallowed.

“Well, Johnathan asked me what I call my daddies, and I said Dad and Sherlock. Then Kevin said that you couldn't be my daddy if I called you Sherlock because that's not a daddy name. He calls his mommies Mum and Mummy. So now I call you Daddy and Dad is Dad, because you're my daddies and daddies aren't called Sherlock.”

Rosie's tone was so matter-of-fact that it was now Sherlock's turn to blink down at her. He blinked and blinked and blinked. She didn't seem to mind, she still had some bun left.

This was a disaster. What would John say? John trusted Sherlock to pick up his daughter on Wednesdays. He trusted Sherlock not to hijack her for his own. Rosie was John's daughter not Sherlock's, but now she was calling him 'Daddy' and that couldn't possibly escape John's notice. He was after all, slightly less of an idiot than the general population.

Also, Rosie had just declared Sherlock her father. She was incredibly confused. This was no good, no good at all. She was already almost 4 years old and Sherlock was all too aware of the fact that John couldn't share a room with her forever. Sherlock gave it about 5 more months before John would have enough and decide to move away so Rosie could have her own bedroom. This 'Daddy' issue would only exacerbate things.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that his breathing had quickened alarmingly and he was certainly in, what Ella described as, a panic attack. He could feel Rosie staring up at him, and he took great effort to regulate his breathing until he felt just a little bit calmer.

“Are you done with your cinnamon bun?”

“M-hm!”

“Alright, lets go home.”

 

Once they got back to 221B, Sherlock gave Rosie some legos before collapsing into his chair in front of the fire. He hadn't bothered to shed his coat or gloves, but he didn't feel warm, not at all. In fact, he could feel a cold shiver running up his spine as he sat there, frozen like a marble statue. His mind was racing and he let himself fall back into his Mind Palace. He wandered around John's wing which now had a gorgeous greenhouse attached to it full of memories of Rosie. He knew he'd need to expand and give her her own wing one day, if he was lucky. Maybe John would get furious and move away and never contact him again and he figured the greenhouse would be enough if that happened. Just the thought of John leaving and taking Rosie with him caused Sherlock to shiver violently, although, he could only vaguely feel it, for he was deep within his Mind Palace and his transport was of little importance at the moment.

Come to think of it, his transport was not just shivering, it was positively shaking. Sherlock surfaced and realize that he was indeed shaking. He was being shaken. By John. John!

“Earth to Sherlock!” John's singsong voice rung in Sherlock's ears. “Hey, you okay?” John had apparently deemed Sherlock back to the present enough to answer questions. He felt John's fingers curl around his wrist. John was taking his pulse.

“Hmmm'kay”, Sherlock mumbled as John pulled out his pocket light and checked his eyes. “I'm not high!” Sherlock spat indignantly.

“I didn't think you were,” John said as he pulled back and raised his eyebrow. “I'm just concerned to find you unresponsive while my daughter plays with needles and acid at your feet.”

“What!” Sherlock sprung up from his chair and into John who had been in the way. Rosie looked up from her legos and grinned.

“Sorry, bad joke. Didn't mean to-, uh, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was still standing close enough that John's nose was a hair's width from Sherlock's laryngeal prominence. As he realized this, Sherlock took a step back and scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Sorry, I just had a lot on my mind.”

“That was obvious,” John snickered. “Is it a case?”

“Don't be obtuse. I don't take cases on Wednesdays.” Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms.

“I guess you don't. Not anymore,” John trailed off and turned towards the kitchen looking for a distraction. Obvious. “Tea?”

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. John was so predictable. “Sure, thank you.”

And this would be it. They would have some tea, and the moment would pass and they would both pretend that nothing weird had happened. John wouldn't ask Sherlock what was wrong, and Sherlock wouldn't talk about the 'Daddy' thing. Eventually, things would simply go back to normal.

“Can I play with the fancy legos, Daddy?” Rosie suddenly piped up.

Sherlock froze and stared at her unblinkingly. He could have sworn he saw a mischievous glint in her eyes, the devil.

“I can't see why not.” John called from the kitchen.

“Not you Dad, I'm asking Daddy!” Rosie called back. This time, she was definitely grinning like she was up to no good. Sherlock shook his head minutely.

John strode back to the living room holding two empty mugs. “What did you say?”

“I'm just asking Daddy if I can play with the fancy legos, but he's not answering.” Rosie pouted and crossed her arms childishly. She was a child after all, so she had the right to, Sherlock guessed.

John looked up at him, then down at Rosie, then back at Sherlock.

“Sherlock? Aren't you going to answer?”

Sherlock flinched at that, and averted his eyes. “You can, er, yes, I mean. Fancy legos, sure.”

God damn it! His vocal chords and mouth were rebelling against him. Stupid transport. He swiveled in place, then decided that it was for the best to retreat to his bedroom. Let John stew for a bit before facing his anger.

Sherlock could feel John's eyes track him all the way to his bedroom, and even after he'd closed the door, he could still feel a tingling sensation at the back of his neck as if John's eyes had been lasers that left permanent nerve damage wherever they lingered. He sat down on his bed, suddenly realizing he was stuck in his bedroom with nothing to do. He was still wearing his coat and scarf. Stupid. He furiously tugged on his scarf until it pooled on the floor between his feet, then shrugged the coat off. He could hear the faint buzzing of his mobile from somewhere within the folds of his coat. He'd set it to vibrate because today was Wednesday.

Wednesdays were supposed to be good.

Sherlock had no concept of time when John quietly opened the door to his bedroom. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Not moving. Not even thinking. He just felt numb.

“Hey, you okay?” John inquired softly. Sherlock was aware of John's presence but he couldn't make his eyes pan over to look at him. Now that he was aware, he realized he couldn't move at all.

John stared at him for a bit. Maybe a minute. Perhaps a year. Sherlock wasn't sure.

Then John sprung into action, grabbing his trusty pen light in one hand and Sherlock's head in the other.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John was so close. Sherlock could feel his words on his skin rather than hear them. The light was in his eyes again and John swore under his breath. The ghosting of hot air straight from John's lungs on Sherlock's lips gave him the start that he needed to snap out of his... stasis?

“Christ, I think you're having a-”

“Panic attack.” Sherlock muttered. “Yes, John. Very perceptive as usual.” He sounded like himself, but his breathing was a bit off. Shaky. Uneven. Too shallow.

Sherlock took a deep breath and held it, forced himself to really look at John, then exhaled slowly. Careful.

“Good thing I came to check on you. Left to your own devices you'd have fossilized eventually.” John gave a half-hearted laugh at his own lame and inaccurate joke. Sherlock didn't tell him how that wasn't remotely close to how fossilization worked, which John then noticed and furrowed his brows. It was adorable. “Okay, you're scaring me now. Get up, I'm going to make you drink that tea I made you.”

John hauled him to his feet and proceeded to drag him into the kitchen. Sherlock felt his legs start moving on their own accord, helping John move his transport.

“There we go!” John grunted as he deposited Sherlock into a chair. “Drink this.”

Sherlock felt a mug nudge his fingers and reflexively closed his hands around it. Might as well. He went through the motions of lifting the mug up to his face, tipping it against his lips, then swallowing the lukewarm contents. Afterwards he felt a bit more like himself again, although incredibly confused by his own body's apparent shutdown.

“I think we need to talk about this.”

Sherlock looked up. John! Of course, they needed to talk. Talk about Rosie. Where was she? Sherlock's eyes roamed around the kitchen, then towards the sitting room.

“She's downstairs, playing with her fancy legos at Mrs. Hudson's.” John supplied. John was reading him, this was all wrong.

“I-,” Sherlock started, but realized he didn't know how to proceed, and god forbid finish. What were they talking about.

“It's not a big deal. The 'Daddy' thing. Really, it's not. Sherlock-,” John was saying, but Sherlock cut him off, because of course _now_ he remembered. The issue. The 'Daddy' issue. The issue of Rosie thinking Sherlock was her father just like how John was her father. And now John was pretending it like it wasn't all that serious, like it wasn't a world-ending, earth-shattering, doomsday-prompting, humongously _big deal_.

“She thinks I'm her father, John!” Suddenly he was upright. Standing. How did that happen? His arms were gesticulating wildly. “She thinks we're her fathers. Like how Kevin has two mothers, whom he calls Mum and Mummy, and the same way Jonathan and everyone else in her group has a mother _and_ a father. Except for Gladys, I guess, whose mother is single, but that's beside the point. She's _wrong_ , John! I'm not-. We're not-. _She called me 'Daddy'_!”

Sherlock was breathing heavily, like he'd just run up the stairs or vaulted across rooftops. John was staring up at him. Shock. Yes, that's what John's face was expressing. Pure, unadulterated shock. Sherlock let himself sink back into the chair. He was starting to feel numb again.

“Sherlock,” John was looking up at him through his eyelashes. It was a calming gesture, Sherlock noted. “I need you to calm down. You're having a full blown panic attack, I'm sure you aware, at least somewhat, and to be able to feel better and think rationally, you need to calm down.”

John's voice was rather soothing. He was very good at this. Of course, he was a doctor so he'd need to be good at things like this. John also didn't seem angry, which was a huge relief. John was talking about 'thinking rationally', which meant that he was probably doing that very thing and not likely to rant and rage and run away. In fact, now that Sherlock was really thinking about it and actually looking at John, he could only see concern in John's eyes. Not even a shred of disgust. Okay. Calm thoughts. Sherlock mentally played through Bach's 'Air' and focused on his breathing.

There. He was calm. Relatively.

“Okay, I'm ready.” Sherlock stated quietly. John leaned back and exhaled in relief.

“You've raised your concerns, quite clearly. Thank you for that, but it's time for me to state my opinion, don't you think?” John was still talking in his soothing doctorly voice, and Sherlock nodded for him to continue. “I think-, yeah, I think we should've talked about this some time ago. Probably around the time Rosie started talking, to be honest.”

John paused, clearly not as confident as he wanted to portray. Still, he was talking in _that voice_ , so Sherlock stayed quiet.

“I can think of several reasons why you'd freak out about this and most of them seem awful, so I think I'd rather have you tell me why you're so... alarmed, rather than me taking a guess and getting it wrong.” John gave him a weak smile. He was scared, Sherlock realized. John was scared; but of what? “Can you please tell me, Sherlock? Why does it bother you?”

“Why doesn't it bother you?” Sherlock couldn't help asking. Word vomit. Foul phrase.

“Answer me first.” John's voice had an edge to it now. Dangerous.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He'd rather not look at John's face as he confessed.

“I'm afraid you'll take offense and leave.” Sherlock had been ready to end there, but then he felt the words leave his mouth without his consent, again. “And I'm afraid to hurt Rosie's feelings when I have to tell her the truth.”

“What truth?” John's voice was carefully neutral. Sherlock chocked on nothing. He kept his eyes shut.

“That I'm not-, we're not-, not like that.” He couldn't say it.

“Explain, please.” John's voice: still carefully neutral.

“I'm just her dad's flatmate.” Sherlock spat out. His eyes were stinging now, behind his eyelids, which he kept scrunched up.

John was silent. Sherlock wasn't. He could hear his own ragged breathing. He gulped air into his lungs, expanded them so far he felt like bursting, then just held it. Fifty four seconds later, Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding with a long whoosh sound. John took it as a sign, apparently.

“Sorry, sorry, a lot to unpack there.” He heard John sigh and rub his face. “Hey, look at me, Sherlock.” He really didn't want to, but he opened his eyes anyway. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were wet and glistening. Embarrassing. “God, Sherlock.” John exclaimed and _ding, ding, ding, we have a winner_ ; Sherlock must be crying.

“John.” That was all he could say. Just 'John'. Pathetic.

“Let's be very clear on this,” John said and looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. “Unless you have any objections, Rosie is 100% as much your daughter as she is mine. I'm not angry, and I'm not going to leave, okay? She can call you 'Daddy' if she wants, although that might get confusing. I'm not sure it's distinguishable enough from 'Dad', but we'll work it out. Just... I don't know, relax, please. I'm not leaving, and I know I'm repeating myself and you usually hate that, but I think I need to say it one more time just in case: I'm. Not. Leaving.” John's eyes were honest. And very blue. Indigo. Sherlock reckoned they might look positively purple, given the right lighting. He made a mental note to consult a gaffer on the matter.

“Are you still with me?” Of course, John. John! Sherlock reminded himself he'd actually have to open his mouth to provide an audible answer.

“Yes,” he managed. Barely.

“Good. Any other concerns?” John was smiling now. No concerns. Except for the obvious. Parents were usually _together_ together, romantically entangled. John hadn't mentioned that. If Sherlock and John weren't romantically entangled, then that meant John was single. On the market. Available. Up for grabs. Someone could _snatch him_.

Sherlock felt his breath hitch.

“I guess you have other concerns, then.”

The words. Again they just came out. Unbid.“'Notherwoman, er, I mean.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “What if you meet another woman?”

John giggled. Sherlock felt affronted. “How?” John wheezed. “How am I supposed to meet a woman? Where would I find the time, or the opportunity, or, more importantly, the motivation?” John was looking at him with his don't-be-ridiculous face, but it looked almost fond now.

“The motivation? Really?”

“Hey, don't give me that look.” John pointed a finger at him. “I might have been a slag a few years ago, but honestly the idea of me _dating_ , especially now, is just ludicrous!” John shook his head, chuckling softly. He found John's behaviour endearing, but Sherlock felt confused.

“What do you mean 'especially now'?”

“Well, it'd be like, I don't know, cheating, I guess.” John shrugged.

“You need to have a relationship first before you can have an affair.” Sherlock scoffed.

“You're right. I thought we were just discussing that. Our relationship. And how Rosie fits in it.” John looked a bit puzzled. Sherlock felt like he'd slipped into an alternate reality.

“Our relationship?” Sherlock thought he sounded inarguably stupid.

“I mean, yeah. Our relationship. As in how we're living together and raising a child together. You know. Adult relationship stuff.” John started to sound a bit uncomfortable, unsure of himself. “I understand our dynamic might be a bit different from other parents' but, uhm, it's still valid, I'd think. And I- ah, wouldn't mind, maybe...” John trailed off, cleared his throat, pursed his lips, and furrowed his brows. He was very rather talented at communicating with only his facial features. He probably wasn't aware, even. Fascinating.

“Look, what I'm trying to say is that... I don't mind not dating other people if that means I can spend the rest of my life with you. And Rosie of course.”

Now, it was time for Sherlock to furrow his brows. John was such a puzzle sometimes. What exactly did he mean by 'rest of his life'? He couldn't- no, he wouldn't-. Not that, surely?

“I'm not asking-, I mean,” John went on, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts. “Nothing has to change, you know. I'm not saying you have to divorce your work or anything. This is not a proposition, unless-, that is, of course you wouldn't. I'm just saying.”

John was babbling and not making much sense. Divorce his work? Was that a pop culture reference Sherlock wasn't getting or, oh. Oh! 'Married to my work', he'd said that once. And John remembered! Why did John remember? 'Not a proposition, _unless_ ', had Sherlock really been that moronic?

He was staring at John now, wide eyed.

“Sherlock? Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-. Oh, shit. I've ruined-”. John cut himself off rather abruptly. Why? Because Sherlock had reached across the table and taken John's hand in his.

Hand-holding. Soft. Warm. _Nice._

“I think, John. If this is indeed a proposition, I might be inclined to accept.” Sherlock muttered, more scared than he'd ever been before in his life. Including the moment of Rosie's birth, and when Moriarty had shot himself in the head. Maybe not when John was in that bonfire. He might've been more scared then.

“What?” John was staring at him, dumbfounded. Sherlock squeezed his hand, softly. John let out a quiet 'oh', and looked down at their hands for a second, before squeezing back.

“That's why I was afraid, John. Not this exactly, rather, the opposite of this.” Sherlock muttered. John looked back up at him. Now or never. He was going to say it. “You see, for the past few years, actually, since shortly after you moved in, to be honest-”

“I love you.”

Sherlock looked from their hands at John, who'd just done the impossible. John, the most wonderful man he'd ever met, smiled back at him. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and gave into the smile erupting on his face.

It was that simple.

“I rather think you've stolen my thunder, John.” He said gravely. His wide grin probably gave him away, though.

“You've had plenty of moments in the spotlight. I was due for some action.” John quipped back and stood up from the table without letting go of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock followed John's lead and rose from his own seat.

“I guess you're right. I messed up last time, anyway.”

“What do you mean, last time?”

“Did you really think I had been dying to tell you for years that Sherlock is actually a girl's name.”

“I know it isn't.”

“Exactly.”

Then, inexplicably, they were kissing.

It was soft, delicious, and monumental. John's lips were dry and warm against his, and his cheek had just that bit of stubble underneath Sherlock's palm. Sherlock felt like he was cocooned in the navel of the universe and nothing could ever get better than this. Then John nibbled at Sherlock's bottom lip and the kiss took a sharp left turn into sensual territory. Sherlock could hear himself groan and he could definitely feel his face flush. John was gripping his elbow with one hand, while the other was crawling down Sherlock's back. When it found it's target, it grasped and squeezed, and Sherlock had to stop kissing John to pant instead in his mouth.

“Okay?” John asked and kissed along Sherlock's jaw.

“Fulgurous!”

“You are able to string way too many syllables together way too coherently right now. Let's fix that.” John whispered against Sherlock's earlobe, which made him shudder. John grabbed Sherlock's rear with both hands and pulled them together. It was electrifying.

Sherlock sought John's lips once more and moaned wantonly when he kept missing. John helped by latching onto his bottom lip and _sucking_. This was amazing.

John was amazing.

“Yoohoo!”

Hudders at the door. Not so amazing.

They both jumped back a step, panting and flushed. Good thing, since in the next moment, Rosie came running into the kitchen wearing a pirate hat and an eye-patch.

“Yarrr!! Mateys!”

“Boys, I love having her, honestly, but I really must go now. My bridge night with the girls started 20 minutes ago and I've yet to call a cab.” Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen from the sitting room, hands on her hips. “Are you done with your little domestic? Am I free to leave?”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. You're a life-saver.” John gave her a sincere smile and a nod. “And the fancy legos?”

“Oh, yes. I've put them on the coffee table, safe and sound. I don't understand why you insist on calling them fancy, when it's just a pirate set, but-”

“That's why they're fancy!” Sherlock pouted.

“Walk the plank, sea dog!” Rosie pointed a plastic hook at Mrs. Hudson, who giggled and left the flat with a 'you silly boys' and a few 'honestly's. Sherlock gave John a warm smile and moved so he could hold his hand again.

“Rosie,” John began. “Sherlock and I have been talking and I don't think you should call him 'Daddy' anymore.” Sherlock froze rigid. What? “It's much too confusing. It's too similar to dad. What about Papa, hmm?”

Sherlock melted.

Not literally, but very much figuratively.

Rosie looked deep in thought. She was considering the matter in utmost seriousness.

“Papa Pirate?” She tried out, then grinned and her laughter danced into Sherlock's heart. “It's perfect!”

“Sherlock?” John murmured into his ear, and Sherlock forced himself to take his eyes off Rosie to look at John.

“I love you.” Sherlock breathed. “I meant to say it before. I always have.”

Now it was John's turn to tear up. He let out an unsteady bark of a laugh and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

“This has been an incredibly long time coming, hasn't it?”

“Yes, it has.”

They moved to the couch in the sitting room to observe Rosie play with her fancy pirate lego set Sherlock had bought for her 3rd birthday. It had quickly become her favourite. She handed Sherlock a familiar looking lego pirate.

“Can you please do the voice, Papa?” She pleaded, testing out Sherlock's new parental term at the same time. It was perfect.

“Hoist the sails, you scally-wags! Hard to starboard, you lazy scoundrels, for we sail for Tortuga!”

Rosie burst into manic giggles, and John laughed fondly at Sherlock's side.

He took a deep breath and let it out. Ahh.

Wednesday's were good.

 

 


End file.
